


Gesture drawing

by varevare (varebanos)



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:27:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1489966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varebanos/pseuds/varevare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, getting inspired is the hardest part of art. And other times, the biggest problem is getting the right model.</p><p>Art School AU with Damian as a student who lacks his father's charm, and with Tim as a model because it's a good way to pay for college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt from Rocking Robin on Tumblr!
> 
> I had posted this already on DamiTim prompts but now I post again separatedly because I'm going to continue it as a verse >x

A hundred and twenty seconds. That’s all the time Damian had to sketch each pose, and any other time it’d have been more than enough. As it was now, though, he could barely draw a couple of lines before the time was up. It was utterly frustrating, and there was nothing he could do about it.

 

The chime that marked the two minutes went off and Damian glanced down at his sketchbook -completely blank this time- with despair.

 

It wasn’t his fault. He was usually able to perform admirably in these classes, making detailed sketches thanks to his ability to memorize the pose in seconds. However, instead of the pose, that morning his eyes seemed unable to notice anything but the way the model’s chest would rise and fall with every breath, the way his muscles would start to tremble slightly after spending long on a particularly complex pose and it was only his fault that Damian was unable to draw. He had been fooled!

 

When the boy arrived, he thought -he was sure _everybody_ in the class would agree- the model was, once again, skin and bones. How could have he imagined the moment the oversized clothes would fall to the floor that there would be nothing there but muscle and soft-looking, lightly freckled skin that practically shone under the morning light?

 

There was no way a mere posture sketch would do justice neither to the colors nor the proportions. He’d have to make a proper painting. Oil painting, life sized, and if possible, nude too. His fingers itched with the urge to do just that. He might be able to do some studies, draw every detail of the model’s body -from the straight nose to the firm shoulders- _if only_ he stopped moving.

 

"Damian, you might be fast, but your pencil has yet to touch the paper," Mr Todd called him, smirking, and suddenly the whole class was looking at him. Damn it. "I know you like Tim, but if you’re not gonna draw, somebody else could be using your seat."

 

Tim. Right. That was the model’s name, wasn’t it? And now _Tim_ was looking at him too, more surprised than anything, and all of Damian’s blood was suddenly in his cheeks. Why was he making that face? He should be aware of the kind of _effect_ he could have on the people there. Damian knew he wasn’t the only one ogling, neither _Tim_ nor Mr Todd had any right to look at him like that!

 

He practically tripped with the hurry to gather up all his things and leave the classroom. Stupid art class and stupid model with impossibly blue eyes that followed him on his way out.

 

Nobody saw the way Jason was smirking when the door closed.


	2. Chapter 2

The corridor was way too warm for that time of the year. The sticky sweat in his palms made Damian keep changing his grip on the sketchbook, and despite the open windows there wasn't even the suggestion of a breeze coming through.  
  
There was an AC unit that might have been in working condition around forty years ago. It belonged more to a museum than to a functional office, and the loud noise together with the absolute lack of any change in the temperature showed it. At this rate, the potted plant sitting next to it had a better chance of making Damian stop sweating than it.  
  
It didn't help that the corridor was pretty much packed thanks to the queue of people waiting to speak to some teacher or some other person Damian couldn't care less about.  
  
And _of course_ , they were all sending glances to the son of billonaire standing with his back against the wall.  
  
By that meaning Damian, because Damian was the only rich kid whose father absolutely refused to hire a private tutor for. Of course, that was after the previous three had resigned, but the point stood.  
  
That was the fifth person who failed to cower in fear under Damian's glare.  
  
The only reason Damian kept showing up to the classes instead of just running for the hills whenever he was dropped on front of the building was that... well, he wasn't being forced to come. He liked art.   
  
Not that he was going to let anybody know, though.  
  
When the door of the classroom finally opened, Damian's stomach went up to his throat. Students started coming out before he could decide what did he was going to say. How was he supossed to explain, in a calm and rational way, that he just needed to paint the image he imagined the first time he laid eyes upon the model? He couldn't afford to have "Bruce Wayne's crazy painter son" on the cover of every gossip magazine the next day!  
  
Damian didn't have a reply before the last of the students were out, besides more people looking at him than before. Soon, the model would come out -what was his name again? Tim?- and he'd have to either do that conversation in public or miss his chance.  
  
Shoving his sketchbook in his backpack, he reached the classroom in two strides and closed the door behind him.  
  
The model -Tim, definitely Tim- was getting dressed, and only spared Damian a glance when he entered.  
  
"Hey, I'll be done in a second. Wait over there."  
  
Tim gestured with his free hand towards one of the seats that mere minutes ago had been occupied by some student. The pause allowed Damian to snap out of his stupefaction, and without allowing himself to linger in the smooth surface of Tim's skin, he rushed to awkwardly stand in the area Tim had pointed to.  
  
"I thought the next class wouldn't start in another ten minutes, though," the model continued, picking up the last of his clothes.  
  
"I'm not here for the class," Damian interrupted him immediately. "I wanted to talk to you."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
Tim finally looked up at Damian, his figure surrounded by an halo of light coming from the window right behind. It made Damian's breath catch on his throat.  
  
"I want to take you home."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Well, of course I'd pay you." Damian backpedaled as soon as he saw Tim's expression. "How much do you want for a night?"  
  
"I'm sorry, I think you're mistaken. I'm not that kind of model, really."  
  
"What does that mean?" Damian frowned. He had been prepared for a no, but not for an... excuse. "Do you really live just from gesture drawings?"  
  
Tim stepped closer, already completely dressed, and then did something completely unexpected. He blushed.  
  
"Look, what I do for a living is none of your business..."  
  
"Do you set prices per day? Night?" Damian insisted, panicking at the thought of letting his one chance go. "I can pay anything you want me to."  
  
"Listen, you might be cute, but I'm not going to sleep with you for money! I'm not a prostitute!"  
  
Damian froze when Tim yelled at him. Before he could explain he didn't mean to imply such thing, of course, the model stormed out of the classroom, slamming the door open just as the students of the next class were ready to come in.  
  
They might have heard Tim's yell.  
  
Damian's life was probably over, now.


	3. Landscaping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw yiss things are moving. Tim's POV this time!

There wasn’t any bus stop near the address Tim had received. Of course, everybody in that area could afford a car -or five- and it was way too far from downtown to be worth anybody’s time.  
  
It didn’t make Tim any happier, having to walk for half an hour (google’s estimation) for a modelling gig that looked more suspicious than any job should. He was certain that, if his parents were alive and heard about it, they would never allow him to go, no matter his age.  
  
Though, if his parents were alive, he wouldn’t need to do it in the first place.  
  
The only reason he had to trust any of this was Jason’s word.  
  
"He wasn’t propositioning you!" the man had said after laughing for five minutes straight when Tim told him. "I can’t imagine that kid propositioning anyone at all. I don’t know where he got it from, his parents have never been precisely shy, but- Ah, whatever. Damian wasn’t telling you to have sex with him. Period."  
  
"Then what did he want?" Tim frowned at his cup of coffee. The school’s cafeteria food tasted cheaper every day. "He was completely red, I can’t believe he’d get like that just to ask me to model for him."  
  
"Next time take pictures." Jason smirked. "I wish I had seen that. ‘The Wayne brat blushing’ would make for a beautiful headline."  
  
"That’s not answering my question," Tim insisted. "How can I know I won’t get hit in the head and wake up in a BDSM dungeon if I go?" Jason shook his head, laughing once again. "I’m glad you find the situation so funny, Jason, but I’m afraid I don’t share your point of view."  
  
"Jesus, Tim, no need to be so paranoid." Jason took a sip of his own coffee, and judging by his face he enjoyed it just as much as Tim did. "The kid isn’t actually bad. Well, he’s bad with people, but he doesn’t…" he trailed off. "I know his parents, it’s complicated, but he’s actually nice. Seriously," he added, seeing Tim’s face.  
  
"Then what did he want?"  
  
"A model. He acts weird because he’s always had to guard the family’s name, that’s why he’s coming to this school. Nobody recognizes him here."  
  
"I’ve been working as an art model for a while, and I’ve never had anybody approach me like this. Why should I believe you?"  
  
"Then don’t. But Damian comes from money." Jason downed the rest of his coffee, making a face, and stood up. "I have another class in a couple of minutes. Think about it, though."  
  
Back then, Tim hadn’t put all the pieces together. Wayne wasn’t that uncommon of a name, and having more money than Jason or him was even easier. Standing in front of the iron fence spelling Wayne Manor in gothic letters, though, Tim thought he really should have.  
  
He remembered being driven past that same fence as a kid when he was going to school, years ago. It hadn’t gotten any less impressive with time, the black paint so bright it could be wet.  
  
"Good morning."  
  
Tim jumped to the side, away from one of the pillars of the door. When he turned to look, he noticed an almost hidden panel with a speaker and the telling black dot of a camera. Just great.  
  
"The motion sensors alerted of your arrival. No need to get startled," the voice explained. It had a slight British accent, and it gave Tim the sensation it was about to say ‘release the dogs’. "What’s your business with the Waynes?"  
  
"I’m just here for the job," Tim replied, hoping to get sent either inside or back home as soon as possible  
  
"What job?"  
  
The incredulous tone of the voice made Tim think saying “I came here to take off my clothes” wasn’t a good idea. Clearly, if there was any official job offer, the person he was talking to -though Tim wouldn’t put past the Wayne Enterprises to develop an AI for gatekeeping- hadn’t been informed of it.  
  
"Can I talk to Damian Wayne?" he finally asked, unable to think of a good answer.  
  
"One moment." Some muffled sounds came from the speaker, and then silence. It was the first time Tim noticed just how silent the whole area was, having grown used to the constant noise downtown. At least he’d hear the dogs coming.  
  
To his surprise, the next sound was the clank of the gates unlocking automatically, and they swung open in front of him.  
  
"Please come in. Master Damian will be waiting by the main entrance."  
  
-  
  
When Tim arrived, after another half hour -by his own estimation this time- Damian was not waiting there. Of course.  
  
If Tim had any artistic inclinations, he’d enjoy the view of the gardens and the building. He could see it was impressive, at least. However, the only relationship he had with art was having enough patience and self control to stand perfectly still while naked. It was easier than being a stripper, even if it made barely enough to help him pay his studies.  
  
After a moment or two, he knocked. He could hear an echo inside, but without a proper doorbell it was hard to say whether or not anybody noticed. Nobody came, but rustling sounds came from the garden, and Tim found himself with 150 lbs of dog on his back.  
  
"Titus, no!" someone yelled behind him.  
  
When Tim managed to get away from the dog -who, to his surprise, was very happy to see him and hadn’t tried to bite his head off- he found himself sitting across from Damian Wayne himself at last. A flustered, sweaty, dog holding Damian Wayne. The dog, whom Tim assumed was called Titus, kept wagging his tail like crazy and trying to go back to cover Tim with kisses. Damian had probably been just trying to keep him away from the door.  
  
Maybe it was the lightning, or the adrenaline, or the way his wet shirt clung to his muscles, but Tim felt rather eager to get naked in front of him all of a sudden.  
  
It was probably the adrenaline, though.


	4. First draft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, have some gratuitous (not quite) fictional nudity

Damian's throat went dry the moment he saw Tim. It was preposterous, but he seemed to have forgotten what Tim looked like. The shock that Tim's features caused him hadn't lost any of the strength from the first day.   
  
However, the situation was even worse than their two previous interactions. Not only had his dog -stupid affectionate dog that Damian never had the heart to teach some discipline to- attacked him, Damian himself looked like he had just crawled out of a hole. That was usually Todd's look.   
  
Maybe Tim would like that. He did seem to like Todd more than he liked Damian himself.   
  
Though judging by his face, he didn't like it at all.   
  
"I tried to stop him," Damian muttered apologetically, trying to calm down Titus and avoid eye contact with Tim at the same time.   
  
"It happens." Tim stood up by himself and brushed his clothes. "Where's the drawing room? We're late on schedule already."   
  
He still looked way more put together than Damian himself felt. Damian had barely managed to get Titus to sit down.   
  
Titus seemed to like Tim at least as much as Damian himself did, which was more than Tim obviously wanted to deal with. No wonder he was eager to get everything done with as soon as possible.   
  
"Over there," Damian answered, pointing to a corridor beyond the entrance hall. "It's the only door open."   
  
"I'll wait here," Tim replied, not taking his eyes off Damian. Like  he was the one analyzing his anatomy for a portrait. Or maybe an autopsy.   
  
Without another word, Damian led Titus away -having to pick him up on the way there, because Titus liked being picked up even more than he liked greeting strangers. He didn't seem to care that he wasn't a puppy anymore. Alfred was in the kitchen waiting for them, already setting food down for Titus.   
  
"When do you want me to bring refreshments for you and your friend, Master Damian?"   
  
"He's-" For some reason, the words 'he's just a model' never left Damian's throat. "At six will be fine, Pennyworth, thank you."   
  
It didn't feel like a lie.   
  
-   
  
Upon his return, Damian found that Tim had indeed waited for him. He gave Damian another one of those once overs -the ones that might very well scorch his skin if they lingered- before walking in front of him. Damian tugged at his clean shirt self consciously.   
  
As soon as he reached Tim, Tim broke the silence.   
  
"So who is this painting for?" he asked, curt and business like. It made Damian wonder if this was something he did often: going into other art students’ houses to get naked per hour. It made some ugly, oily feeling stir inside his gut. Ridiculous, really.   
  
It wasn't like Tim was a friend doing him a favor or anything, no matter what Alfred might think. Damian didn't even want him to be his friend, he just thought Tim would look good on a canvas. That was it.   
  
"A private collector," Damian lied smoothly. He had practiced. "He wants a mythology-themed series."   
  
Tim hummed in response, and that was the last noise he made until they reached the drawing room. The canvas -big enough to make a full body painting of Tim’s life sized, and more- and some props had already been set out, in such a position that they caught all the best of the natural light that came through the ceiling height windows. It didn't seem to impress Tim much, though. Another point for the idea of him doing this often. Grinding his teeth, Damian walked directly behind the canvas and picked up a piece of charcoal.   
  
"Start stripping," he muttered, doing his best to appear as uninterested in Tim's body as Tim himself seemed to be about Damian, and everything surrounding him.   
  
He had a thousand compositions perfectly prepared in his mind, had worked on sketches practically every waking second ever since Tim had agreed to go, but he needed something to busy himself with. Something besides the way clothes were piling in a nearby chair.   
  
The next time he looked up, it was to Tim clearing his throat.   
  
"Where do you want me?"   
  
The small, slightly mocking smile on his face made Damian's throat go dry and his pants a bit tighter. His big ideas of symbolism and order fled out of the window.   
  
"Grab the vine, sit down and look out of the window."   
  
"That's it?" Tim's smile dropped, and Damian wished he could have painted it, captured it somehow, but he would never finish a sketch with Tim looking at him like that. "Jason told me you were good, but aren't you supposed to plan this a bit?"   
  
"I'm the one painting, I'm not paying you to talk," Damian snapped back bitterly. "Is it so hard to grab a plant and sit down?"   
  
Tim huffed, lifting his bangs in an utterly charming way, but he didn't reply.   
  
He wasn't smiling anymore, either.   
  
-   
  
It had been barely ten minutes since Tim had started posing -there was a clock on the wall behind Damian that he glanced from time to time to- but it had felt like an hour. Posing wasn't the most interesting job ever, but it wasn't usually so bad. Usually, there was something to distract him. It could be the artist, who kept making him change positions over and over and over until Tim fit their vision. It could be any random thoughts about his chores for the day, literally anything.   
  
In this case, though, Damian seemed to be perfectly happy with the first position Tim landed on, and there was nothing for Tim to think about. The thoughts appearing from time to time in his head weren't ones he'd like to linger on, anyways. Such as how come he had never heard of the deity he was representing -although vines could mean pretty much anything, but Tim didn't like being kept in the dark- or how many models had to stand naked in front of Damian for a clock to become necessary. Tim knew he wasn't an extraordinary model, but the idea of being just another one in a long list didn't feel right. At least, not with Damian.   
  
"What are you drawing?" he ended up asking, his voice just the slightest bit rough from the lack of use. Damian hadn't given him permission to move even a bit, but as long as he was using the charcoal there was no way he'd need Tim's mouth to be immobile.   
  
"You."   
  
Damian wasn't going to make talking easily, it seemed. Tim could barely see him behind the canvas.   
  
"I know that, but I want to know the motif. What deity is this supposed to be?"   
  
After a minute of silence, making Tim think Damian wouldn't reply again, Damian finally peeked out from behind the canvas to direct a critical look towards Tim's ankles.   
  
"It's Anteros."   
  
Indeed, the name didn't ring any bells, and before he could ask Damian was back behind the canvas. Tim repressed a sigh and determined he'd have to wait it out.   
  
Damian had been practically a blushing, mumbling mess the first times they interacted. It was nice to know he could concentrate on something with such determination, but it made Tim miss being the center of Damian's attention. As himself, and not as a stand-in for some ancient deity some rich asshole had asked for.   
  
Of course, he hadn't started modelling for all the attention and appreciation he got. He had gotten an offer when his father was already sick and he was struggling with money, thanks to Jason, and had been doing it ever since. The pay wasn't bad, enough for him to manage on his own while he finished college, and it wasn't terribly taxing in comparison with his alternatives. Fortunately, he kept getting offers thanks to his physique: slim, young white man was something basic enough to attract a variety of students and artists alike.   
  
It was, however, too basic to attract anything better. He'd never be anything else than a very dynamic mannequin, his face forgettable enough for people to project whatever they wanted to see on it.   
  
Tim didn't want Damian to forget him, though. The boy might be nothing than another rich brat with too much time in his hands, but Tim was tired of being just another model.   
  
Though at that exact moment, he was a model with a cramp in his foot.   
  
"I think we should take a break."   
  
Tim's interruption was not welcomed, seeing the way Damian glared at him. At least it was at him, and not the space he occupied.   
  
"I don't need breaks. It's barely been an hour, I can keep drawing just fine."   
  
Tim scowled unconsciously.   
  
"Maybe you can, but I don't. It says so in my contract."   
  
"We didn't sign any contract," Damian replied immediately. Of course it wouldn't be that easy to fool the heir of Wayne Enterprises.   
  
"My contract with the school," Tim replied smoothly. "You hired me through it, remember?" It was what he used to tell artists. Most of them would rather look for another model than have to go through the hassle of actually signing a contract, but Tim liked having some control over his work conditions. "I need a break every hour, and don't work more than 5 hours per session."   
  
Damian pressed his lips together, but Tim could see the doubt through the cracks in his shell.   
  
"Very well, but no longer than ten minutes."   
  
Feeling triumphal, Tim stood up and started his stretching routine. He didn't miss the way Damian's eyes seemed to linger in his figure for a moment before concentrating again on cleaning the charcoal from under his nails.   
  
That was interesting.   
  
"Is there a bathroom around here?"   
  
"The door by the cabinet," Damian replied, not lifting his eyes again. "Don't break anything."   
  
Tim swallowed down his retort and walked there without bothering to cover himself.   
  
He had been expecting a small restroom, but of course rich people did things differently. In front of him was the biggest shower he had seen in... maybe ever. The drawing room probably used to be a guest room; that, or Damian had enough models over that the shower became necessary. It was colder in there, with small, dark tiles all the way up to the ceiling, and Tim put on an impersonal bathrobe that was folded over a chair there before walking to the sink.   
  
Even the water felt more expensive than the one back at Tim's own apartment. It did nothing to calm down Tim's troubled thoughts.   
  
On one hand, Damian was kind of an asshole. At first, with how shy he had acted -and taking into account Jason's words- Tim had dared to think that Damian, maybe, fancied him. And just like practically any other human being under the age of fifty, sometimes Tim thought with other body parts besides the brain and had considered that he might like Damian, as well.   
  
That moment had passed, though, because Damian was a prick.   
  
And yet.   
  
The break was almost over already, and Tim noticed he had been hearing voices outside for a while. Maybe the butler was real and had brought refreshments. Tim wouldn't object to a sandwich or two.   
  
Except that when he opened the door, it wasn't an elderly waiter the one waiting for him there.   
  
It was Dick Grayson.   
  
THE Dick Grayson.   
  
With a swift movement, Tim slammed the door shut.


End file.
